


Identification

by NinjaFirefly



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Dark, Descriptions of murder, Hallucinations, M/M, Porn, Slash, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 00:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NinjaFirefly/pseuds/NinjaFirefly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Madness is building up within Will Graham. And Abel Gideon just happens to be standing there when he implodes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Identification

**Author's Note:**

> This is an alternate scene between Abel Gideon and Will at the end of 1x11. While watching it the idea struck me and wrote a majority of this fic before I had seen the end. Some minor spoilers for Gideon's storyline, very minor spoilers for Will Graham's.

_Identification: noun – a: psychological orientation of the self in regard to something with a feeling of close emotional association  
b: a largely unconscious process whereby an individual models thoughts, feelings, and actions after those attributed to an object that has been incorporated as a mental image_

_“I don’t know if I will ever be myself again.”_

_\--_

“I don’t know if I’ve got any ‘self’ left over,” Abel Gideon admits to Will quietly, his gaze locked on the window of the room where Alana sits, unaware of the two spectators in the snow. Will cannot tell from Gideon’s words if he is seeking pity or understanding, neither of which Will can currently lay claim to. His empathy seems to have spawned into a beast of destruction, threatening to unravel him and cast away the pieces, leaving him with no more idea of who he is than Gideon has. The foundations of reality tremble around him, the shadows copies of copies of whatever nightmare has slipped past the veil of slumber and into his waking life.

“I spent so long thinking I was him, it’s gotten really hard to remember who I was when I wasn’t him.”

His words seem thoughtful, but Will can hear the underlying spite between each consonant. He lets his gaze wander over to Gideon’s face, the profile he strikes into the night.

But Gideon’s face does not remain his own. It flips between visages like television channels, each hazier than the last. He is Gideon, then he is Garret Jacob Hobbs, and then Jack Crawford. Abigail. Freddie Lounds. Hannibal Lecter. Then he is a stag breathing heavily from his wet snout, turning to face Will with pitch black soulless eyes that bore directly into his core. His lungs stammer with his shaking breaths and he trembles, his fingers twitching for the gun in the holster at his hip.

Gideon’s face returns to its rightful place, and there is a complacent smirk dancing across his lips. He feels victorious, Will senses, and Will’s eyes narrow as a fury builds within him, feeding his madness. Gideon’s eyes shine brightly with glee, and he practically screams it at Will: _I know something you don’t know._

_I know what is wrong with you._

Gideon turns away again, obviously pleased with the glowering frustration in Will’s face.

It’s that moment that Will seizes Gideon by the lapels and crushes his smirking lips under his own. It’s too rough to be a kiss – too fierce and too animal. His teeth find purchase on the soft skin of Gideon’s mouth and he bites, hard enough to draw blood and a startled cry from Gideon’s throat. The other man – a damaged man, as broken and confused and torn and re-sewn as Will is – doesn’t fight back. He submits under the bloody abuse of Will’s mouth, with no more sound after his initial exclamation. He even finds the energy to respond after a time, pushing back as fiercely, and their teeth scrape together with force enough to send shivers down Will’s spine. Spittle and blood coat their lips and mess their chins, freezing in the winter air, but they barely notice. Will’s hands travel from Gideon’s lapels to the side of his face, and he licks and bites frantically at Gideon, his goatee leaving Will’s skin raw.

In his delusion then, it’s Hannibal he is kissing so viciously – as punishment. A punishment for things Will doesn’t even fully understand yet. Hannibal’s perfect hair would fall from its pristine placement and spread across his forehead sloppily. His lips would swell like Gideon’s under the assault Will would place upon them. And, unlike Gideon, perhaps Hannibal would find it in him to fight back, just a little bit.

Will loses himself in the violence of their embrace, in the biting and sucking, so much that when the illusion changes again, it takes him a moment to notice that the skin underneath his is no longer warm and human and alive. The face under his fingers is clammy and loose and he frowns into the sagging skin before opening his eyes to the white, sightless ones of Garrett Jacob Hobbs.

Will exclaims hoarsely in disgust and shoves Gideon backward. Their lips detach with a harsh, wet noise and Gideon stumbles with a soft grunt. Hobbs has once again blinked out of existence. Gideon’s bewildered face is lit by the glow from Alana’s house. His pupils are fully blown in his eyes, consuming the irises with a demonic blackness. There are two splits in his bottom lip, seeping blood onto his chin in shining crimson streaks which dampen his facial hair. He is beautiful in his own way, in the graceful features that have been set upon his face by whatever divinity had designed him. His tongue slips through his lips to run over the cuts. Will can see from his eyes that, though his mind has been picked and manipulated and rewritten, there is one thing that Gideon is certain of and that is lust of one kind or another.

Will resumes his grip on Gideon’s face and encompasses his cheeks tightly in his fingers. Possession. It thrums to his core and makes every heartbeat send an aching pulse down his belly and to the base of his cock, which hardens in his passion, his fever, his hatred.

He fully and truly hates this man. Or what this man stands for. In Will’s mind he represents the failure of the therapeutic and psychiatric systems that would swear to help him. Instead of aiding him to realize the true nature of his mental illness, would they plant a new identity in him and force him to the same destruction and anger and humiliation as had been forced upon Gideon? The man had been stripped of his art – if he had ever had one – and had been taught to acquire traits that were not his own. And he stands there neither fighting nor fleeing now, still so unsure of what he is, of who he is, and who he is to become.

He seems to be waiting. Will’s face is black against the backlight of the house, so Gideon can’t see the concoction of hatred and terror and lust that darkens Will’s eyes. So Will moves forward slightly in the night, more slowly than before, without the spontaneous implosion of violence and anger. He doesn’t move to kiss Gideon again, but instead lets his body press into Gideon’s, stepping closer until their stances are almost perfect mirror images, and then places one foot between the other man’s legs and leans.

Their thighs touch first, through the fabric of their jeans. It isn’t warm; not yet. The material is still cold from the night air around them, preventing any heat in this initial touch. Will lets their chests brush together. They both still breathe heavily from the exertion of their previous embrace and Will can feel the contrasting rhythms of lungs heaving in and out, like the uneven beat of a poor orchestra. But where the difference should unsettle him, it calms him. It’s a minute reminder that they are in fact two separate men. There is no warmth in this contact either.

Then, Will pushes his hips forward into Gideon’s. There is a stutter in Gideon’s breath as their erections press together through the fabric of their jeans, a slight shush of material as Will drives upward. Evidently Gideon has found the violence and possession as arousing as he. Gideon stares into Will’s eyes, a renewed glint of satisfaction taking seed within his own. His hands come up to fist Will’s coat in his large fingers.

They are just meters away from the window of Alana Bloom’s home, from her gentle yet ultimately pitying demeanor. Will realizes now that what he sees, what he _craves_ in Gideon is what Alana would lack. The breaking point that lurks just beyond his wide eyes, the turbulent mind that seeks the same refuge as his. They both fight so hard to reclaim themselves. Where Gideon seeks to find the stability in the killer he once was, Will seeks to find out exactly what kind of killer he could become. Though he isn’t sure yet whether he is preventing his eventual metamorphosis... or encouraging it.

Gideon’s hands are tugging Will forward, the tightening of his coat at the small of his back pushing his hips forward more still, and he lets out a breathy grunt at the friction the movement produces. The glint of his eyes says that he knows exactly what Will is looking for, and exactly what he is going to find. And any information that he might reveal is information that Will Graham is going to have to work very hard for.

_I know what is wrong with you..._

It is Gideon that initiates the next clash of tongue and teeth and saliva in a not-quite kiss. Will can feel a smile of victory begin to grace Gideon’s mouth and he bites it back down again. He will not allow this to be purely for Gideon’s own benefit. Without warning, Will’s hands leave the cool skin of Gideon’s face and seize his buttocks instead and pull, at the same time that he thrusts forward roughly with a strength he should not possess. The contact is painfully delicious, their groins producing an exasperatingly dull pressure on each other. It isn’t the same as being bare, being inside someone or having someone fill him. It is like trying to seek a long worked-for pleasure through layers of skin and clothing and mentality. There is no quick end and there will be no great reward.

But that doesn’t stop him from continuing. His fingers dig into the flesh of Gideon’s ass and he cants his hips forward furiously in a violent rhythm. Gideon begins to respond, meeting Will’s thrusts evenly and slipping his hands beneath Will’s coat and underneath his shirt. His cold fingers shock Will’s fevered skin as they palm his sides and cling to his skin to aid their pace. Will pants harshly, while Gideon gives little grunts of effort their lips occasionally meeting in kisses that were never meant to be kisses; only the rough biting hunger and hatred and their search for release. Will’s lips split in more than one place and their blood mingles, the sour metallic taste bittering further in the winter air. Will laps it up with an animalistic desperation and grips Gideon against him until it hurts.

It doesn’t take as long at this pace as Will would have expected, at least not for him. Perhaps it is due to his present mental state, or perhaps it is because he hasn’t had anyone in a while. Or maybe it is because he truly and utterly hates Gideon and in this fierce display he is proving it. More than once he imagines himself raising his hands to Gideon’s throat and clamping down, grinding his cock into Gideon’s as he watches the skin of his cheeks purple and swell, eyes reddening and watering in the fight for oxygen. He imagines himself coming in his pants with stars in his eyes and spatters of blood on his hands as he cuts Gideon open from belly to throat at the moment of his release, liquid heat enveloping him in every way imaginable. He even sees himself allowing Gideon his own orgasm before firing a bullet through the bottom of Gideon’s jaw to punch through the roof of his mouth and squelch through the grey matter in his skull before rupturing the thick bone and throwing up what remains of his once so complete mind and spattering it onto the snow.

He does none of these, though he cannot reason why. He flirts with the idea that perhaps he has more humanity left in him than he thought. But perhaps it is just because he would rather have someone else finish the job.

But it doesn’t take long for him, in any case. A minute or so of frantic thrusts, of angry biting and seething against Gideon’s teeth, and the pressure builds in his belly. The friction between them is just enough to tighten everything in his groin to a maddening coil of pleasure, then release it in a violent orgasm. Will cries out harshly and rides his peak out by shoving his hips relentlessly into Gideon’s, paying little heed to the increasing pitch and frequency of Gideon’s own small noises.

It isn’t like any orgasm he has experienced before. His eyes flutter open and closed, and the face in front of him shifts repeatedly between Abel Gideon’s, pinched tight and matted with blood, and Doctor Hannibal Lecter’s, who, in Will’s mind’s eye, bears the same tortured, ruined expression as Gideon, but with more agony, and infinitely more pleasure. It is this image that distinguishes his height of release from any other. Because unlike times previous, when the idea of innocence had been the root of his bliss, it is now the idea of contamination, of tainting, of blood and more blood and semen and skin sliding together in blatant sexual pollution.

And Hannibal Lecter would be the object of his destruction.

Will finally rides down from his orgasm with a few lazy thrusts into Gideon before going still, his eyes closing and his knees quivering from the intensity of it. He would like to say that the experience will leave him more whole in the end, but he knows this will not be the case. A floodgate has ruptured somewhere in his mind, and he knows that this is only one of the things that has slipped free. And when he opens his eyes he finds it is just Gideon’s face there once more, cheeks red and ballooning slightly with his panting breaths. He has evidently found his own release to be at least mildly satisfying, by the way his fingernails have dug painfully into Will’s sides.

They remain that way for a few minutes, gripping tightly, stubbornly. The front of Will’s jeans are warm at first, then slowly, degree by degree, the heat is stolen from them until an uncomfortable coolness clings to his sensitive skin. His breath shakes and quivers long after he has caught it, his mind swimming in and out of reality in such broad sweeps of delusion that it takes him several moments to realize that Gideon has slipped out of his grasp and stepped away, hoisting up the handgun he has just lifted from the holster at Will’s belt. The barrel points directly between Will’s eyebrows, its black circle wavering just slightly darker than the night.

Gideon is laughing breathlessly, his teeth gleaming with a demonic brightness like a grin from the Cheshire cat. His expression is one of humored bewilderment, as if he can’t believe the utter dementia he has just witnessed.

“You’re really sick, aren’t you,” he murmurs slowly. Will sways gently on his feet and blinks. As his eyes reopen, Gideon becomes Hobbs once more, decayed grey flesh glowing ethereally in the night.

“Were you coming here to kill me?” Hobbs asks, and his voice has an air of mock offense. “After all we’ve been through together? Oh, sure, I played a few tricks, but...” Hobbs’ unblinking eyes tighten at the corners in a smirk. “...you’ve got a few of your own, haven’t you. And I really must thank you, by the way.” One mottled hand raises and he sways like a dancer. “It’s been a while since I have... indulged.”

Will lets a dark smile flirt over his lips, his half-lidded eyes blinking once more. Gideon resumes his place in Will’s sight, wiping the blood and saliva from his face with one sleeve.

“Hannibal Lecter must have a field day inside that mind of yours, William. You’re his favorite sickly little pet, you know.” Gideon pushes the gun forward until the muzzle is pressed into Will’s forehead. The end is cold as ice and Will shivers, his breath a frosty cloud that billows up and around the freezing metal. “I wonder if the inside of your head is just so much soup as well...”

Somewhere in the distance an animal cries, a piercing screech and then wail of misery that dies slowly off, echoing in Will’s mind. His breath shudders incessantly and though the winter is frigid, he sweats all over. The air around him ripples as if he is viewing it through a fish tank, and Gideon is replaced once more, this time by Hannibal Lecter himself. His cool eyes are locked onto Will’s, his face an impassive mask. His grey hair is swept over his forehead and sprouting from his skull are two gleaming black antlers, cutting angry paths in the air with their sharp points. Lecter breathes in slowly as if drawing in Will’s scent, and then lets the breath out in a deep, animal-like snort. One slim finger moves on the trigger guard of the hand gun and slips through it, putting a slight pressure on the trigger.

They stare at each other in silence for a few moments. The muzzle digs into the skin of Will’s forehead and he finds himself embracing the idea of the finality of the bullet. At the moment the pin strikes the primer, the spark produced by the contact will flash through the chamber of the shell, igniting the gunpowder. The explosion will build behind the bullet itself until it separates from the rest of the shell and travels down the muzzle in the space of mere milliseconds to launch from the end in violent birth. Directly into his forehead. Wouldn’t it be perfect, he muses, if the bullet were to cut a bath directly between the lobes of his brain. Of course, this would only occur if the bullet didn’t shatter upon impact with his skull and send tiny pieces of metal through the soft matter of his brain. This would make the eventual exit wound about twenty times bigger than the entry wound, as each projectile would punch a different hole in his skull and blow out the back of his head.

Will’s lips twitch as he imagines it, the magnificent end of his damaged mind, the implosion of the grey matter he can no longer depend on. Lecter’s expression remains calm, and he tilts his head slightly as if asking permission.

Will smiles a smile he doesn’t feel, a smile that doesn’t matter, a smile that is the expression of his acceptance. He leans his forehead into the gun, gritting his teeth as a dizzying sensation sweeps over him. Lecter responds to this with his own dangerous smile, his lips pulling tightly upward at the corners.

Will closes his eyes.


End file.
